


Most Faithful Mirror

by Kiyaar



Category: Marvel 616
Genre: 10 Years of Steve/Tony, 2012, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Avengers v4, Established Relationship, Fear Itself, M/M, Porn, Shattered Heroes, Some Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-10-05 12:03:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10307078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiyaar/pseuds/Kiyaar
Summary: Written for 10 Years of Steve/Tony! (circa 2012).After the events of Fear Itself, Tony is in rough shape. Feelings and porn ensue.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to mrhd for looking this over! This got longer than I wanted it to, angstier than I wanted it to, you know the drill. Not a feel-good! What do you want!

Tony’s been doing this, lately. Steve understands why he won’t leave the house; the paparazzi are practically climbing the walls, since. Storm graciously drives them away when she can but they always scuttle back like roaches and so Tony cowers in a way he hasn’t done for years and smiles like he’s dying and locks himself out of the garage.

Steve thinks he would personally punch Odin in the goddamn throat given the opportunity.

They’ve always had their rough patches. As a team, as the two of them. Wanda was bad, but it’s the confluence of all of it, this time. The tower. Thor, dead. Bucky, fake-dead. Norman Osborn.

Tony, off the wagon for the entire goddamn world to see.

Steve leaves him to his own devices, mostly, sneaks away to Howard’s office to plan his search for the New Team. (“We need some old friends,” Tony had said, looking utterly defeated, before Osborn had even shown up, before they’d even been back to visit the rubble of the tower.) It’s partly self-serving, he knows, but he doesn’t want Tony to stumble onto a half-composed roster. Not now, it’s been barely six weeks since they dusted the rubble off their boots and retreated here to haunt the place and it still feels like they’re squatting.

Steve is at the landing when he hears it, and it’s bad today, because Tony isn’t even trying to stifle the ugly wet sobs Steve can hear coming through the heavy oak door.

“Tony, it’s me,” he says softly, letting himself in through the thick oak door. He knows better than to slip in unannounced. He’d like to avoid panic, or flight today.

Tony is hunched over the coffee table where Howard’s crystal liquor decanters are still there, unmoved, untouched, covered in a thick layer of dust. Steve bites back the remark he wants to make, because de-escalation is the goal, always, now, with Tony.

“Blade?” Tony says, momentarily coming out of his torpor, and holds up one of the clippings. “Scraping the bottom of the barrel, aren’t we?”

Steve slides over the arm of one of the armchairs to sit across the coffee table. “He’s not gonna join,” Steve sighs.

“Then why is he in here,” Tony says, shuffling through Steve’s notes like nothing is wrong, like he doesn’t look wretched and his beard isn’t coming in all over his cheeks. “We have Thaddeus Ross on the team, we let anyone join up these days, what is this – Cloak and Dagger won’t be on a team with me, Steve,” he says, bitter and exhausted.

“You asked me to assemble a new team,” Steve says, “And I’m working on it, Tony, ok, put it down, we don’t have to do this right now–”

“We do, actually,” Tony says, and sniffs, wipes his nose on his rolled-up shirtsleeve, “because Peter and Logan just quit and we barely made it out of there, Steve, we can’t sit on our thumbs for this one, Osborn cannot have this team, what if the next thing happens and we’re _not enough,_ I need to _,”_ he says, “I just need to do something right, one fucking time-”

“You saved the world,” Steve reminds him, and Tony bites at his lip and shoves the crystal right off the coffee table and onto the floor.

Steve reaches across the coffee table to grab Tony’s shaking hands in his own.

“I fell off the wagon,” Tony says hollowly.

Steve sighs. He shouldn’t, but no one is perfect, and sometimes, on days like these, bad days, it’s like they never got past it the first time, like they’re _right back there_ with Tony going on missions with five fingers of scotch in him and Tony sitting at the breakfast table pouring rum into his coffee and not caring that Steve noticed.

Not noticing Steve cared.

“I know,” Steve says.

Tony doesn’t meet his eyes. “And I didn’t mind it,” he says, like if he wants it badly enough Steve won’t hear it, maybe.

Steve blinks. He sniffs, as surreptitiously as he’s able, but Tony just smells like stale sweat and tears and a tiny hint of copper where his bare feet have found the crystal shards all over the floor.

There are tears sliding out of Tony’s eyes again.

“Ok,” Steve says, and lets go long enough to slide around the coffee table to sit next to Tony. “We’ll deal with it, we’ve done it before and we’ll do it again, _Tony_ , come on, hey-”

“I think I should leave the team,” Tony mumbles, looking at his hands.

Steve blinks. “You can’t leave the team,” is what comes out of his mouth.

Tony looks at him, red-rimmed eyes and greasy hair and he sets his mouth into a firm line. “No one wants a drunk on the team, Steve,” he says.

“You’re not a drunk, Tony,” Steve says, and scrubs a hand over his face. “Have you had anything since?” He knows the answer already; it’s no. “Has anyone ever told you you’re human?” His patience is rapidly evaporating and he knows it’s not fair, but nothing about this is fair and neither of them deserve the flagellation.

Tony’s eyes go glazed-over and settle somewhere by the picture window. He leans against Steve, presses his thigh against Steve’s like he wants to do more but he’s loath to let himself have it. “It’s like nothing I did matters,” he says. “They’re already crucifying me for this, I’m sure it’s exactly the opening Osborn was waiting for, it’s like everything I went through the first time doesn’t even matter, like all the work I did and all the people I hurt–”

“That’s not true,” he says. “People remember how you–”

“Yeah, that’s the problem,” Tony says.

“That’s not was I was going to say, I was going to say _you beat it,_ you have to stop reading the tabloids–”

“It’s not even the tabloids,” Tony spits, “It’s everyone, that was their takeaway, not ‘Avengers Save World From Death Serpent,’ it’s ‘Tony Stark’s Alcoholism Rears Ugly Head,’ Steve, you don’t want me on the team right now, I don’t know if you know this but people _don’t like us_ –”

“I need you on the team,” Steve snaps. “I like you,” he says, quieter.

Tony snorts. “Fan club of one.”

Steve is quiet beside him. They sit like that, watching the late afternoon light filter in through the stained glass over the picture window.

“Why do you do this,” Steve says, finally. “Why do you act like you’re not worth anything to the rest of us?”

“I think you’re mixing me up with someone else,” Tony says ruefully. “6’5”, red and gold?”

“Tony,” Steve says, and twines his fingers with Tony’s.

Tony’s hand stays limp, but at least he doesn’t pull away this time, he just sighs like all the fight leaves him at once and finally, finally leans in to Steve’s shoulder. Hides his face. Steve feels a wet spot forming on his sleeve that they’ll never discuss, later. They won’t discuss any of this, later.

It’s good enough for Steve. For now, it’s all tabled. Crisis averted, maybe.

“Hey,” Steve says, “Look at me, Tony, look at me.”

Tony’s trains his enormous blue eyes on Steve and says, “I think you should fuck me.”

Steve blinks. “Right now?”

“You have somewhere else to be?” Tony says, and he’s already sliding his hand over Steve’s chest, slowly but deliberately picking at the buttons to his shirt, twisting his hips so his chest is angled towards Steve and Tony’s halfway to climbing into his lap.

“No,” Steve says, and it’s a lie, he has several things to be doing, but Tony needs him and Tony is so warm and he’s _here_ and there’s no one to tell him no, he’s _team leader,_ it’s his job to be the disciplined one but Tony’s mouth is on his neck and there was never really a chance, was there, because being with Tony is like being dragged into the eye of a hurricane.

It’s a terrible privilege and a terrible roller coaster. He’s miles ahead of Steve, he’s a genius, he’s dazzling when he’s at the top of this game and violently sad when he’s not. It’s all Steve can do to try and anticipate, to minimize the collateral damage, to forestall the inevitable place Tony circles back to: self-loathing and entropy and dispossession. And Tony’s not crying anymore, but his face is still wet, his eyes are still watery, he still looks like he never wants to go out in the sun again, it’s like walking over land mines and orbiting a star at the same time and if Steve can mitigate this disaster with his body, well.

“Take off your shirt, Steve,” Tony whispers in his ear, and what can Steve do.

Steve moves so fast it’s embarrassing. _No self control,_ he thinks, because Tony should have a nap or take a shower or something that isn’t _this,_ but his shirt tangles around his biceps and Tony is already there, easing it down off his wrists and already working on Steve’s fly –

“Maybe we shouldn’t–”

“I know what you’re gonna say,” Tony says, and he still sounds like he’s tears aren’t far away but he’s also rubbing the heel of his hand against Steve’s cock, and everything else slides away: Jarvis, the unlocked door, the wide-open window looking out into the courtyard. “And I know why you’re gonna say it.” Tony presses on, tugs his shirt out of his pants and kicks his legs up underneath him so he’s kneeling sideways on the couch and ready to dive face-first into Steve’s crotch. “But I need you not to say it and just let me do this.”

Steve cradles the back of Tony’s head and drags him into a filthy kiss that would feel entirely inappropriate to the situation if it weren’t for Tony’s enthusiasm: Tony’s wandering hands and Tony’s teeth dragging at Steve’s bottom lip and they way Tony _kisses_ – like it’s the last time he’ll ever get to do it _every time_ , all incalculable intensity and selfless performance.

They break apart, panting, and Steve only manages a broken “ _Tony”_ before Tony throws himself into his task and Steve’s cock is out and then buried safely in Tony’s mouth. Steve threads his hands through Tony’s hair - he likes it this length, it’s almost as long as it used to be before Tony woke up in that hospital room with his memory gone and his head shaved to his scalp - and then Tony is pushing his knees apart and Steve is bucking up into his mouth because Tony is doing a sinful suction thing with his mouth.

He knows better than to ask if Tony is getting anything out of this, because depending on the day Tony will turn ice cold or burn twice as hot, because Tony is already using one hand to pull himself out of his pants and the moan he lets out when he finally gets the zipper down makes it abundantly clear that he’s hard as nails already.

“Do you want me to fuck you,” Steve says, because the head of his cock is bumping the back of Tony’s throat and he isn’t gonna last if he keeps going at warp 10 like this –

Tony gently lays Steve’s palm over Tony’s throat so Steve can _feel_ and slowly, _slowly,_ pulls all the way off.

Steve has to grab the base of his cock with his free hand to stop himself from coming right then and there onto Tony’s face.

“Is this helping?” Steve pants.

Tony sucks one of his thumbs into his mouth in response.

“Christ, Tony,” Steve says. “Get your pants off.”

The minute Tony’s pants make it past his knees, Steve is on him, flipping him around – it’s rougher than he should be, but he _can’t wait_ and he kisses the space between Tony’s shoulder blades and then the side of Tony’s neck and the spot just behind his ear and Tony moans into the leather and walks his knees further apart, reaches around behind him to tease one of his own fingers into himself –

Steve sits back on his heels and swears. There’s nothing in here they can use, and he knows if he’s able to coax Tony to standing it will be a long shameful walk upstairs and Tony will disappear into their bedroom and odds of getting him out again – fed, sunshine, human interaction – are slim. “I can’t, we can’t,” Steve says. “Damn it–”

“You did me this morning,” Tony reminds him.

“ _Tony,_ ” Steve says, because that’s reckless even for Tony.

“Steve,” Tony deadpans.

“I’m not, _no_ , I’m gonna hurt you,” Steve says.

“You won’t,” Tony says, “feel,” and guides Steve’s hand with his own. To Steve’s utter shock, the blunt tip of Steve’s thumb slides right into Tony’s body, and there’s something warm and slick and it’s _Steve’s come_ and Tony’s been _walking around_ like this all day, _god_ -

It’s all Steve can do to try and stop himself from coming, immediately, as he lines up to slide into Tony’s body, but the couch dates back to Howard and it sags under his weight. The head of his cock bumps uselessly against Tony’s balls.

“Sit up, this isn’t gonna work,” he pants. He looks over his shoulder – his legs might hang off the end of the couch, but he could lie down, and it’s wide enough for Tony to fit a knee on either side of him -

“Don’t tease,” Tony all but moans, but he’s levering himself upright, already fitting his body back around Steve’s, curling around him like a snake, wrapping his smaller hand around Steve’s massive fingers, stroking the head of Steve’s cock and all but ignoring his own –

Steve makes a decision and lays back, his bare skin against the increasingly sticky leather, and reaches for Tony.

“ _Oh,_ ” Steve gasps, because Tony is three steps ahead of him and swings a leg over him and sinks down all in one fluid motion and it’s _divine_.

Tony plants his hands on Steve’s bare chest and sets his face in determination and starts to move.

“Are you ok,” Steve says, and reaches up to touch Tony’s face with the hand that hasn’t been knuckle deep in his ass.

Tony’s eyes snap open. “Don’t ruin this,” Tony breathes, and fucks himself down onto Steve’s cock and squeezes his eyes shut.

Steve grabs his hips and keeps him there. “Tony, what the hell.”

“I don’t wanna talk,” Tony says all in one breath, like it’s a goddamn _chore, “_ just fuck me, ok–”

“That’s not – _stop it–”_

“So you don’t like this?” Tony rolls his entire pelvis like a brat, his eyes half-open, his expression lazy and unconcerned.

“Yes, I like it,” Steve bites out, “would you knock it off and tell me what’s in your head?”

Tony stops squirming and leans his weight back and resolutely doesn’t meet Steve’s eyes.

“It’s nothing, Steve,” Tony sighs. He doesn’t even seem to notice that he’s losing his erection. He runs his fingers through his hair like he’s going to start pulling it out by the roots.

Then he arranges his face into something that looks a lot like his goddamn _press smile_ and has the gall to say, “I love you.”

Steve glares. “Yeah, I love you, too. Start talking or I’m putting my clothes on and walking out the door, Tony,” he snaps.

“I didn’t mean anything, I was just, I’m sorry,” Tony says, but the smile is already gone and he looks like he’s sliding back into the ether –

“’Don’t ruin this?’” Steve fires back, digs his fingers into Tony’s hips before he remembers he can’t do that because he’s going to bruise. “Can you understand why it might be concerning to hear that while we’re doing this?”

Tony’s gaze settles somewhere to the left of Steve’s face.

“I feel like we’re not going to be able to do this for much longer,” Tony says curtly. “So I’d like to just enjoy it.”

Steve stills and feels his stomach twist into something ugly and cold.

“What,” he says.

Tony traces the lines of Steve’s pecs in lieu of an answer, touches Steve’s abs, leans down to drag his tongue over drags a finger through his bronze pubes. “Don’t worry about it, Winghead,” he says, like that’s it, like that’s the last word.

Steve grabs his wrists. “Stop it,” he presses. “What does that mean, Tony?”

Tony looks at the ceiling and sighs and blinks and blinks and blinks. “I honestly don’t know what you get out of this,” he says.

Steve feels a lot like someone has set him on fire.

“Where is this coming from,” Steve chokes out. “Do you,” and Steve can barely make himself say the words out loud. “Do you not want this? A relationship? With. Me?”

Tony shifts his weight and Steve has to swallow down a gasp because even though he’s going a little soft, he can feel everything, he’s still inside, and this is the wrong time and place to be having this conversation –

“Let’s not pretend you aren’t getting the short end of the stick being with me, Steve,” Tony says. He puts his face back into that wretched mirthless smile.

Every nerve in Steve’s body wants to flip Tony over and wipe the sad little self-deprecating smile off his face and prove him wrong.

Steve sits up, chest to chest with Tony, and Tony gasps and throws an arm out to clutch at the back of the sofa.

“I want this,” Steve says fiercely, “I want what we have, Tony, I want you–”

Tony turns his face away. “You shouldn’t want me, Steve,” he says. “Why are you like this?”

After Paris, before Tony left and came back with fancy new toys for the rest of the team, they sat on a Quinjet and Tony held a bottle in a paper bag on his lap.

“Are you sure,” Steve had said, and Tony had looked at him like he was begging for a reason not to go through with it, like he would follow Steve to the ends of the earth and beyond if Steve asked. Like he was begging Steve to tell him not to. 

Steve hadn't taken his opening. 

“No,” Tony had said after what felt like an eternity of waiting, and that was that.

Steve has learned, since then, to pry. Tony can't be left to his own thoughts in this hollow shell of a home, he'll drown. He won't make it. 

“Like what,” Steve presses, _gentle_ (he has to be gentle), and wraps one of his arms around Tony’s back. “Like what, Tony, what am I like–”

“You’re this perfect thing,” Tony says, and gestures uselessly with his hands, “you forgive me when I shouldn’t be forgiven, you’ve forgiven me for things I can’t even remember and you _shouldn’t_ , Steve, no one else gives me a pass, why do you–”

“I’m not perfect,” Steve says, and it comes out angrier than he really wants. Tony sighs.

“You lifted Mjolnir,” he says dully.

“And you wielded the fucking Infinity Gauntlet,” Steve says. “I couldn’t have done that, Tony.”

“That doesn’t,” Tony says, and drags his hands over his face. “Just – stop, I’m making a mess of this, I’m sorry, you should, I shouldn’t have–”

“When are you gonna love you as much as I do,” Steve asks him.

Tony dips his head, and when he picks it back up, there are tears streaming down his face.

“I love you so much it scares me,” Tony says desperately, like the words are tripping over themselves as they leave his mouth. “And I’m scared that you’re going to wake up one day, probably soon, and realize that you shouldn’t be loving me back.”

“Tony–”

“The worst part,” Tony says, with a hollow little laugh, “The worst part is everyone knows I’m not good enough for you,” he finishes in barely a whisper. “I have to convince myself every day, I see you – out there, people love you, Steve.”

“They love you, too, Tony–”

“I’m just standing in your shadow!” Tony spits. “We both know that.”

Steve is quiet.

The danger with Tony is his certainty. It’s where all of their fallings out have come from; it’s why the Civil War got as ugly as it did. It’s why Tony deleted his memory instead of letting time heal his wounds. It’s why their arguments are always so ugly, why they end in shouting and tears (Tony’s) and time spent away from each other. You fight like hell, Jim had said once. It’s not untrue.

Steve isn’t going to conquer this mountain today.

He kisses Tony, tries to put everything he has behind it, and Tony just melts into it, his shirt sliding half off his shoulders, his cock soft against Steve’s belly. He lets Steve hold him, lets himself be divested of his shirt, lets Steve lean him gently back onto the couch and drag his legs up over his shoulders and takes it, takes all of it, the softness and the touch and the kisses he doesn't think he deserves. 

“I love you,” Steve tells him, because he can never say it enough, because he has a year and some days of lost time to make up for, time that Tony is never getting back, and despite – or because of - having come back to life several times himself, he lives in constant fear of tomorrow, the what-ifs drumming madly through his head in the still hours, in the dark. What if he leaves you. What if he dies again. What if _you_ die again.

This is all they get.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs into Tony’s skin, and Tony lets it drop, or carries it with him, maybe, maybe that’s the stiffness in his legs when Steve lays him out and presses kisses into the soft skin of his stomach, maybe that’s why Tony is biting his lip instead of moaning, maybe this is the best they can ever hope for.

He sucks Tony’s cock into his mouth, briefly – he’s not as skilled as Tony but he can do the job, he can coax blood back into him, he can set Tony’s breath off into an uneven cant and tear the smallest of moans from his throat and even though he feels like he’s ruined everything since he walked into the room, he can do this for Tony, he can use his strength for love instead of war.

“Is this ok,” he asks again, makes his voice softer, devoid of pity, but gentle, patient, in the way he knows Tony needs.

Tony nods, presses his forearm over his eyes, spreads his legs.

The way is easy, and when Steve is fully seated it feels like he’s sliding _home_. He can’t stop his hands from roving over Tony’s bare skin, the shudders that would be imperceptible to normal unenhanced humans are music to him, and he maps the roiling of Tony’s muscles and the shuddering rhythm of his breath. Tony’s body opens to him like they were both made for this, like for a few moments all can be right with the world, and Steve bends to kiss his chest and plants his hands up by Tony’s head and moves.

One of their Avengers cards beeps.

“Leave it,” Tony says, the first thing he’s said in a while. He’s panting, his head bumping against the armrest as Steve thrusts into him, his hand loose around his cock.

“What if it’s important,” Steve murmurs, but he’s pulling Tony’s ankles over his shoulders, he’s losing himself already and he doesn’t want to be Captain America right now.

“There are other Avengers,” Tony says, and Steve doesn’t have the heart to tell him that there aren’t, that 5 people does not a team make, but Tony’s eyes slip shut as he rocks into Steve’s thrusts, finally still, finally some measure of peace written on his face, not rapturous, but _undisturbed_. _Let him have this_ , Steve thinks. Tony shifts the angle of his body, leans back on his shoulders and they slot together so tightly Steve gasps on the next thrust. Steve splays one of his palms over Tony’s chest, over the scar from where Extremis fixed his heart, feels his galloping breath, pushes back unexpectedly, quickly, one hard grind that buries Steve to the hilt and it’s so good, it’s intoxicating, and Steve’s hand leaves his hot skin to find the wretched identicard somewhere on the coffee table –

“Steve,” Tony pants, “Steve, Steve, _Steve, please_ don’t, don’t do that to me, come back–”

The metal snaps into shards. Less flexible than the last iteration. Tony can make him a new one when he’s feeling better. No one needs him that desperately.

“Oh,” Tony says, and he leans up to reach his arms around Steve’s neck, to say it into the skin around his throat. “ _Oh_ ,” Tony says again, clings, tighter, abandons his own erection entirely and just ruts shamelessly against Steve’s stomach, Steve knows he must be close, he’s so thick and dark and Steve can _smell_ how wet his cock is –

Steve grabs the back of Tony’s head and cradles him, ear to ear, Steve’s lips against his curling dark hair.

“I love you,” Steve whispers, and he can feel the gooseflesh rise on Tony’s chest. He thrusts hard, deep, once, twice, and then he _stays_ , buried, unmoving, so close that it’s unfair to both of them, he knows, and he can feel the gasp run through Tony’s body, feels it hitch in Tony’s chest and Steve bites his earlobe and Tony halfheartedly tries to get away but he’s moaning, he’s saying something unintelligible and Steve can feel the weight of his cock, the heat of it, trapped between them.

Tony’s hands come to rest on Steve’s biceps, and Tony turns his head ever so slightly to suck on Steve’s neck. His body feels so different than it did 15 minutes ago, so lax and malleable, like Tony would melt if it weren’t for Steve holding the both of them together.

Tony shivers, his eyes barely open, lets Steve hoist his ass up a little, sprawls out against the pillows with his mouth the color of sin in the light filtering in from the late afternoon sun. He palms himself, unhurried, and it’s been so long since they’ve gotten more than a few stolen moments of this, since they’ve been on these terms – shaky as they are – since they’ve smiled at each other instead of sniping, they’re _finally_ almost ok again and Steve pulls out in a slow drag and then pushes his way in fast, without warning, just to watch Tony’s face contort, to watch him clutch the leather and make breathless noises and this is perfect, this is everything –

“Steve,” he says, and he almost slurs. “Go as hard as you need to,” he says.

“No,” Steve grunts, and laces his fingers in with Tony’s, dips his head to kiss Tony’s collarbone. “I’ll be fine.”

“Steve,” Tony says, sharper, and grabs his wrist – his fingers barely fit around Steve’s massive forearm. “Fuck me like you mean it,” Tony says, and props himself up on his shoulders.

“I do mean it,” Steve says, “I always mean it. And I’ll tell you every day until you believe it, Shellhead.”

Tony pulls him down for a kiss. And keeps kissing him, keeps licking into his mouth, _takes._

Whispers, “You’re close, aren’t you,” into Steve’s ear, and _clenches_.

Steve can’t help it, he’s gone. He’s done. He whimpers into Tony’s open mouth and Tony won’t stop clenching, won’t let him pull away, won’t stop sucking at his neck.

“ _Tony,_ ” Steve says, and rests there, on his elbows, and that’s when he feels Tony’s cock still bobbing between them.

“Shit,” Steve pants, and pulls out with a filthy sucking sound. “Do you–”

“No,” Tony says flatly. Tony’s not paying attention or maybe he doesn’t care, because he didn’t clench when Steve pulled out and there’s come all over the couch and he’s just laying there looking catatonic, indolent and half-hard and apathetic about the entire situation.

Steve leans down to kiss him and Tony swings his legs over the side of the couch, steadies himself on the coffee table with one filthy hand smeared all over Steve’s newspaper clippings. He hisses – bare feet, crystal.

“So that was shitty,” Steve says to Tony's back. “Hey,” he tries. “Tony, talk to me.”

“I should shower,” Tony says, pulling on his pants, pressing his cock back under his zipper. He doesn’t spare Steve a second glance.

“I meant it,” Steve says. “I mean it. I love you.”

“Yeah,” Tony mutters, his hand on the office door, his shirt slung over his arm. “I know.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> I am on tumblr as [kiyaar](kiyaar.tumblr.com). Here is a rebloggable [post](http://kiyaar.tumblr.com/post/158436571908/fic-most-faithful-mirror-written-for-the)!


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